Time's Scar
by Isolde Necrophilia
Summary: The late High King Torygg's former mistress and mother of his bastard son agrees to wed Ulfric who, following the Civil War, has been crowned. But she still hasn't forgiven him and is plotting revenge as the new royal family struggles to survive the endearing Thalmor conflict, a commander who claims the queen murdered the late emperor, and a shattered country.
1. Pride

Pregnant clouds hovered over Riften as they often did in the late afternoon; they summoned the high tide, causing waves to fold upon the shores and lift salt-crusted vessels nearly to the docks' surfaces. Ellyn observed the fishermen as they raced the inevitable storm and chuckled into her warm tankard of milk and honey – they spent most of their days teetering on wedges of floating wood to avoid the sea and yet they were terrified of being sprinkled? If anything, she thought to herself, they could certainly benefit from a bit of rain. She distinctly recalled the odor of decaying fish smothering her and her teetering restraint to demand they bathe before bedding her. Fortunately, laboring men like themselves only wanted to cum and made it quick – a few minutes, really – not like they could actually afford much more. But no matter how expensive the perfume she cloaked herself with, the smell would shroud her for days following her time with the client. Luckily, a certain steward of the late High King mistook the fragrance as curiosity of other women and thus only supplied her with a heavier purse until accepting common clientele was no longer necessary.

Funny how things worked.

Ellyn readjusted her robes before resting her elbows against the railing. She flashed a smile at one of the men who happened to look up, perhaps to evaluate the oncoming storm, and noticed the contrast of her snowberry-kissed hair against the full paneling of Honeyside, or her face that, like a good wench's should, was _familiar_, but the kind of familiar that was like reaching into a dream forgotten in the earliest minutes of waking. He watched her, his hand half in the air, until a drop flicked the tip of his nose.

"You'd best tie up your little boat there, lad! It's gettin' away from you!" Ellyn shouted. The boy blinked at her before looking over his shoulder and to the docks, where a sad rowboat was being stolen by the current. It also carried his words away, but Ellyn suspected they were inappropriate for her _ladylike _ears.

With a smug nod of the head, Ellyn poured the remaining layer of cooled milk and thickened honey into the drizzle and returned inside where she rubbed the sleep from her hazel-green eyes with her knuckles.

"Good evening, my thane," Iona greeted her with an amused smirk played on her lips. "I've prepared venison stew – if you're hungry."

Ellyn pursed her lips. "No,. . .too early for venison stew. Are the sweet rolls still good?"

Iona looked over a batch of desserts she prepared four nights before. "Nothing is growing on them, but they're harder than dragon's bones."

"Tha's how I like 'em," Ellyn grinned. She took one into her hand as one might take an apple and bit into it, stepping around the crumbs as they fell onto and in-between the floorboards. "Bare, hard, and _tasty_."

The housecarl blushed. She parted her lips to say something predictable, like 'my thane' or sorts, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"High King Ulfric Stormcloak's courier, milady!" a muffled voice announced.

Ellyn's brows kneaded. "Ulfric's courier? Is that what he said?"

"Yes, my thane – should I. . .?"

"No, it's quite alright," the redhead stepped forward. She was hardly dressed for a guest; only a thin, silk robe covered her bare body and her hair puffed like a halo of static electricity, but nevertheless. She twisted the knob, pulled the creaking door forward, and greeted 'High King Ulfric Stormcloak's courier, milady!' with another bite of a sweet roll in her mouth. "Wha'-uh-'it-dooh-ooh-'ant?"

The courier's eyes drifted uncertainly. "Pardon, milady? I, uh – I have a message I'm supposed to deliver. His Grace requested I return with an answer as conveniently as possible."

He extended a letter folded and sealed with the Stormcloak sigil. Ellyn accepted the parchment and swallowed the bite. "Right, right. Always as conveniently as possible. Well. Why don't you room at the Barb and I'll get back to you tomorrow afternoon?"

The man cleared his throat and laced his hands together at his hips. "Yes, I might ordinarily, but you see, the storm delayed my journey and. . ."

Ellyn rolled her eyes and stepped inside, leaving the door open for the man follow. "I'm very busy, you know, makin' venison stew," she said quickly and passed the letter to Iona as she began tending the stew. Ellyn was illiterate; being a poor farmer's daughter and former prostitute, it was never necessary. When she was granted the title of _Dovahkiin_, however, she did begin picking up what some of the markings meant, but she could read about as much as a child _if_ she studied the symbols for hours and hours. It was a very frustrating business and she hadn't the patience to perfect it. "Please read it to me."

"Yes, my thane," Iona cleared her throat and broke the seal. Flattening the paper, she began,

"_Dragonborn,_

_I write to you to request your audience at Palace of the Kings. Please inform my courier when you will be able to make the journey – expect to stay for seven days. Food and bedding will be provided._

_Yours always,  
High King Ulfric Stormcloak"._

Ellyn forgot her prop. "Seven days? What the shit takes seven days to discuss? What does he want me for, for seven days? I,. . .I have _things_ to do, you know!"

"I don't know, milady – I'm only a courier."

"And the 'yours always' part – did he really put tha' there?" (Iona nodded.) "_Yours always_. What the shit does that even _mean_? Tha' piece of shit! I'll give yah a broom to stick up his tight ass! I don't wanna look at 'im, why would I want to stay in that dungeon they call the 'Palace of Kings', eh?"

"I, should I –"

"Yes, you should tell him to go fuck himself."

"My thane," Iona began, "I advise you to reconsider. He may be seeking your aid against the recent Aldmeri Dominion activity. As Dragonborn, you should set aside your predispositions for the better of Skyrim. At least hear what he has to say."

"I don't pay you to advise me," Ellyn assured the other woman as she sank into a seat at the dining table.

"You don't pay me at all."

Her fingers curled and lifted her cheek. "Fine. I don't not pay you to advise me. I do not pay you to follow me about and hype me up like I'm an important person. But, for the matter. . ." she trailed and smoothed her brow with a thumb, "I suppose you're right."

The former prostitute devoured what remained of the sweet roll as she considered the king's request. She was expected to be present when politics applies to her, slay dragons when they were spotted near holds, and listen to the Night Mother when her voice crept into her ear on starless nights. Yet since the Civil War had become to an end and Ulfric was named High King, the business of land and its people hardly concerned her and the dragons were no longer as brave as they had once been. The Night Mother, however, had been beckoning for her; she had names for her, orders that demanded to be assigned to one of the lofty recruits. Ellyn rolled her fingers between her lips to cleanse the sugar from them before lifting her doe-shaped eyes to catch the courier's gaze.

"Iona – a quill, won't you – ah, thinking ahead, good lass. Right, well, tell _High King Ulfric _I'll begin my travel in two days' time. I have business in the North, so please urge him to shorten that seven days. If he expects me to listen to him blabber on for that long, he might as well have me executed."

* * *

"You look nervous, my thane," Iona observed as she extended her hand to stable Ellyn as she stepped off the carriage and onto the frozen mud.

The Dragonborn exhaled a puff of mist and tugged the edge of her forest-dyed cloak tighter around her chest. The duo departed Riften before the first rays of light could reach the tallest mountain peaks and had just arrived in Windhelm after they were drowned by its rivers and ancient tombs. It had been a long journey, an uneventful one at that – but the anticipation splashed the carriage's rails and spooked the mare like they'd been attacked by all of Tamriel's bandits. "I hate this place," she explained. "And I hate the man inside it even more."

Iona followed Ellyn obediently, carrying all that her thane deemed necessary for the journey. "May I ask why that is?"

"Don't play stupid. I know you've heard," she snapped.

"There were rumors you worked with him during your stay in Solitude, but I don't care much for rumors, my thane," the housecarl spoke slowly.

Ellyn huffed as though she were carrying the baggage. "Yes, I did support the Stormcloaks while I was fucking His Majesty. But I only suggested, advised – and I believe he would have considered my advice had Ulfric not murdered him. The bastard did it in cold blood, and I don't care what anyone else says. He laughed at me, mocked me – and never once did he apologize for taking my son's father from him. I thought he, of all the men in the world, would understand."

Iona looked regretful. "My apologies, I didn't know. . ."

"No, you wouldn't have. No one remembers me as Torygg's wench, mistress, what have you. No one remembers that they took my son from me. All they remember is that I am Dragonborn,. . . and I suppose that's alright with me. They say it's an honorable title, but I don't even know what 'honorable' means."

The women approached gates heavier than the largest ship in Tamriel and stepped between them when the guards allowed it. "What has become of your son?" Iona asked so quietly Ellyn had to strain her ears.

"I don't know," she admitted, throat constricting. "When they arrested me at the border for treason along with that old, fat bastard, Tullius threatened to murder him – but he hadn't the heart. Said he'd give him to an orphanage, but I don't know which country he was sent to. I've been trying to find him for eight years, but none of my men can find any records. I don't even know what he _looks _like or what name he's been given!"

They walked through the broken streets in silence.

"I have this dream. One day, I'll be walking along as you and I are, and I'll look up and see Torygg's face with my eyes. And I'll know."

"What would you say to him?"

"Nothing. No bastard wants to hear about how much his mother loved his father, but how his father loved another woman, no matter how complicated the circumstances," Ellyn reasoned. Glossy-eyed and half-heartbroken, she was eager to change the subject. "So you don't get paid at all, then?"

"No, my thane," Iona chuckled. "I swore an oath to the Jarl to be your sword and shield, amongst other things."

"So what do you do it for?"

"Honor," she replied simply.

"Looks like you got the shit end of the stick – isn't that how that phrase goes? – oh my, what a handsome lad!"

As they approached the eroding monument, a man with skin as pale as Oblivion but with hair as black as the Sea of Ghosts advanced toward them. He wore a Stormcloak uniform, straight shoulders, and a swollen chest. "Dovahkiin, we have been expecting you," his voice boomed. "I trust your journey was not too difficult? Our men have been making an effort to maintain safety on the roads."

"And your efforts have not been in vain," Ellyn practically sang as she tucked a loose curl behind her ear. "I only wish the journey was much shorter. My company is quite boring, you see, but with a fine lad like yourself. . ."

"You flatter me," the man laughed, lifting his thick brows in surprise.

"And what is your name, lad?" she asked.

"Sir Letholdus, milady. I have been asked to escort you inside the palace."

"Does your service include escorting me to my bed?"

The boy, or man – he looked somewhere in-between, perhaps in his mid-twenties – did not blush, which surprised Ellyn to a short degree. His grin only widened, narrowing those ebony optics that seemed to glint through long lashes. "I would be honored, but my wife would have my head on a platter."

"Ah, a wife? What a shame," Ellyn clucked her tongue and linked her elbow around his to step beyond the palace's walls. With steps so uneven, she thought, a woman could fall straight forward and break her pretty little nose! A gleeful laugh of delight parted from her pink lips and was lost beyond the main hall where, beyond a narrow stretch, sat the king himself.

"Such a busy king you are!" Ellyn's voice echoed, "You must be so exhausted that you can't even _sit _appropriately on that throne of yours. It's unfortunate that society deems visiting the king in his bed improper. A pillow would be mighty more comfortable than a fist – wouldn't you agree, _Your Highness_?"

The man at her side stiffened and unlocked his elbow from hers, as to proclaim no familiarity with her. How the Northerners loved their king so! And there Ulfric sat, his steward and housecarl at his side, with no other but the crumbling bricks that once gleamed so proudly in the company of Ysgramor. She despised the exhaustion pressed into the deep lines of his face, the way he leaned into that chair as though he were entitled to it and everyone should lick the shit from his boots because he was godsdamned _Ulfric Stormcloak_. Her skirts collected dust before she lifted either side of them to curtsey.

"That is no way to address the High King!" A man growled; his voice was so characteristically feral that she dared not think it to belong to no other man besides Galmar himself.

"Was something wrong with my curtsey? I could try again," Ellyn suggested.

Ulfric sighed and pushed his weight back onto his feet.

"The king stands! The curtsey must really have been quite awful."

"I'll chop you into pieces, little girl. . ."

"You will do no such thing," Iona clambered to Ellyn's side, sword unsheathed.

"There will be no more fighting in this hall," Ulfric regained control. He stepped down from his throne and beyond them, reaching for a lidded bottle of Nord mead. "Dovahkiin, I am pleased to see you've arrived unharmed. I understand long journeys can bring out the worst of us all."

"Only journeys to see you," she nodded sweetly, lacing her fingers at her hips.

The Nord ignored her comment. "We were preparing to feast if you would like to join us. Or Sifnar has prepared a room for you and your housecarl upstairs if you'd prefer to rest."

"How very kind of you, Your Highness –" Ellyn's throat suddenly felt parched. The last time she had addressed a man of royalty had been Torygg and she could not ignore that she now addressed his murderer with the same title, the same expected _respect_. It made her want to spit. "– but I would _prefer_ we discuss whatever it is you asked me here for so I can spend as little time in the same room with you as possible."

Ulfric's golden-blonde brows rose and so did the bottle of mead – and it didn't settle back onto the table until it was emptied. Galmar laughed.

"What are you laughing at?" the redhead barked.

"Have a drink. You'll need one," Ulfric gestured his hand at the drinks that seemed more like wood carvings than usable substances.

Ellyn reclined into the seat nearest to the throne. "There isn't enough wine in Sanguine's realm."

"I couldn't agree more," he spoke through his teeth. His hands, like the paws of bears, clamped the head of the chair facing Ellyn before addressing the four remaining persons in the room. "Would you excuse us? I would like to speak with her alone."

Ellyn was touched by Iona's unwillingness to abandon her side. She nodded at her housecarl as she helped herself to a pitcher of wine. "It's alright. If he tries anything, I'll open his stomach open like a pig's."

She found this very amusing and nearly choked as she tried to laugh and spill wine down her throat all at once. Face flushed and teary-eyed, Ellyn rested the pitcher on her lap, dismissing manners even a stable boy was expected to uphold with a feast of horses and heifers.

"So, what is it –" she belched, "oh, excuse me! What is so _very_ important that I've been dragged to this glorious city for?"

Ulfric sat before her and eyed another bottle of mead. The stern expression he wore seemed to Ellyn that he was urging himself to resist the temptation, but as he removed the lid, she knew even he did not believe in the words that motivated thousands of others. _Rube_.

"Have you found a suitor to wed?" he asked, nursing the bottle to his lips.

Ellyn craned her neck to the side. "Are you asking if I'm eligible, lad?"

". . .yes."

"I s'ppose I am," she frowned, sinking into her seat. With a roll of skin parting her chin from her collar bones, she asked, "wha's that got to do with anything?"

The charismatic leader furrowed his brows and she wondered if he'd forgotten where he was supposed to have directed the conversation. He seemed to muse though his memories as he finished another bottle.

"People of Skyrim, more often than not, marry for love," he began, still seeming very uncertain. "Life is too short, too harsh. Everyone needs another to lean onto, to share memories with. Children need to be born to carry the family legacy. Many are fortunate to find that certain someone who shares their interests, whom they are willing to give their lives for. . ."

He stopped to smooth the hair growing from his chin.

"That sounded better when I rehearsed with Galmor."

Ellyn's breasts swelled. "It's you and me. You can't swoon me with your damned speeches, Ulfric, so get to the point. Are you proposin' I wed someone? Is that what all this kissin' arse is about?"

"The war has taken a toll on us both, Ellyn. We've both done things we rather wouldn't have –"

"– _I _don't regret anythin' –"

"And you know I have the utmost respect for you. I'm not kissing your blasted ass for anything."

"Oh, fuck off," Ellyn whispered, raising her fingers to rub her temples. Her gaze leveled above him, to the high-rise ceiling and blue banners. "It wasn't but a few years ago when you would've taken a shit on my head and not batted an eye. Remember that?"

"I was foolish."

"I don't care."

"It was politics," the level of his voice began to ascend; "it wasn't personal. Torygg was my friend but I had to prove my strength to the rest of Skyrim lest our forces be considered a joke. He was not a suitable king."

"Hah," Ellyn breathed; "but he would have been a great father."

"To an illegitimate child?" Ulfric's tone descended several octaves.

The Dragonborn tore at her nails. "So you've asked me here to torment me?"

"No. I've asked you here to marry me."

With eyes wider than moons and lips parted, she looked to him with horror.

"There is another war coming and I have a country that needs to be restored. I could think of no one more suitable at my side than the Dovahkiin, than you."

The pitcher of wine sowed through the cracks of the stones at her feet as she rose. "I'm done here."

"Ellyn, sit. Listen to me."

"I don't need to. Tell me, Ulfric, does it make you hard when you imagine me sucking your cock? Or does it make you hard when you sit on that fucking throne and lick the blood on your hands? I cannot give you my hand because I am the only thing you have not taken from _him_," she cried. "You are not a man of honor. You are swine and you are tearing this country to shreds. _I am done._"

Trembling from the raw anger surging from her bones, she left the palace with Iona at her side and she couldn't decide whether she felt so very dead or so very alive.

* * *

**A/N: **Introductions have always been difficult for me to write, but I couldn't think of a better way to truly introduce Ellyn without all the fun drama in the first chapter. Ha! Anyway, please spare thirty seconds and review. I get about as excited as a dog with three brain cells when I receive one, I'm not going to lie. I'll try to update this fic as frequently as possible, though with wildland season coming up, it's really hard to say; I can't fathom an excuse to bring my laptop to a forest fire. (;

- I. N.


	2. Dogs & Men

Jorleif, regretfully, admitted Ulfric's crowning hadn't sparked in life within the palace nor the city it ruled; it seemed to him, as it always had since Ulfric's father's passing, that the stones, which had once seemed so indestructible, were wilting. There were cracks between them that welcomed winter's chills and every so often, when he forgot to watch he step, he would lunge forward and smack himself from the missing pieces of the stairways. Jorleif was no warrior, but the swelling and bruises adorning his body could fool even those who knew him best. Presently, he was wearing a purple-black eye beneath his fur-trimmed hat. The swelling had diminished in the two days since he received it (shortly after Lady Ellyn's visit), but it was still tender and as he skimmed through the documents held at his fingertips, was reminded to ask his king once more to refurbish to palace and Windhelm.

The royal steward ascended to Ulfric's quarters and seeing the door cracked open, entered.

"My friend," he greeted, bending slightly at the waist. "Do you have a moment to discuss, er, certain matters?"

The blonde Nord's brows furrowed. The question was not as direct as it appeared; for one, His Majesty was still dressed in his woolen nightgown and had not has his breakfast; for two, important matters were no longer discussed only between the two individuals as they had once been – now that Ulfric had been crowned, a larger council, complete with those of a variety of experience and thus opinions, was necessary to ensure the best decision would be made.

"Our watch-outs to the west have informed me Jarl Vigar Gray-Mane will be arriving by noon," Jorleif explained. "I'll make it quick."

"Very well," Ulfric said a little grumpily and roamed to his wardrobe.

Jorleif cleared his throat. "As your advisor, I highly suggest you convince the lord to raise Whiterun's taxes. The stones aren't what they used to be – in fact, they're becoming a bit of a safety hazard – and if we are able to receive efficient funding, renovating Windhelm will create jobs, boost the economy, and inspire pride in its people."

"To simply ask Vignar to raise the peoples' taxes would be stupid," Ulfric grunted, replacing his loincloth. "The city is still recovering from our attack and Dragonsreach needs some repair from the dragon's capture. Yet I understand what restoring Windhelm would mean; the Palace of Kings is an icon of the Nords, and I would like to keep it that way. I will use part of Vignar's dowry to rebuild."

"You'll discuss a marriage to his niece, Olfina, then?"

"Aye. The Gray-Manes' line runs longer than mine. They're _honorable_ and they're also _respected_."

Jorleif flinched. Ulfric wasn't fond of his proposal that he wed Lady Ellyn; the only thing she had going for her was her dragon blood. She did little for the Stormcloaks' cause, was far from pure, and was an _Imperial_ and not a _Nord_. Still, Jorleif knew she, too, had connections that would, and already had, benefit the new kingdom.

"I advise you to wait a little longer. Lady Ellyn will come around –"

"Her decision is as final as mine," Ulfric adjusted the inner liner of his Stormcloak-blue robes. "Only a fool would make a wench like that his queen. The only admirable choice Torygg ever made was to keep an infertile wife instead of her."

Jorleif was insistent. "I have financial records of Solitude's whore house purchasing her from her father and of Torygg purchasing her from the mistress," he lifted the papers for the other to view; "the people cannot track her past if I burn them."

"A woman cannot erase her past so easily," Ulfric snapped.

"I erased your mother's," Jorleif reminded his king; "I erased her _entirely_."

When Ulfric turned to his inferior, he should've carried an axe to finalize the picture for he seemed ready to execute the steward resigned as an enemy. "If I want you to speak, I shall tell you to speak. Even dogs know how to obey and respect, Jorleif. You are dismissed."

* * *

The Listener was sprawled on her back like a feline as she did what she was allotted, - listen. The Night Mother had not spoken a word since she had arrived despite her insisting, but Nazir herded cattle into the torture room and was, at present, removing some digits. The herd did not answer when he asked where they had stashed their fortunes, but they did sing, and the singing reminded her of the beating within her chest for it was the melody she sang in the process of giving birth to her only son. Her thighs opened, knees bent, and hands fondled the plump breasts driven toward her chin via gravity to rekindle the process – the sex, the orgasm, the burden and delivery. She arched her back, threw her head, and opened her eyes as a gasp screeched through her constricting throat – "Hello, me wee lass."

Babette stood quietly at the foot of Ellyn's bed; her complexion was waxy in the torches' light and her expression was as stoic and empty as a lifeless child's, reminding the Dragonborn of her true nature. Too often she forgot the woman-child was, in fact, a woman and not a child, but Babette was quite forgiving and, Ellyn thought, maybe even enjoyed it, if for nothing but practice.

"Sister," the creepy doll-child smiled. "The screaming excites you, too?"

Ellyn looked thoughtful as she rolled onto her belly, arm extended toward the other. "Aye," she laughed, "I suppose it does."

"Your sexual drive is more intense today because you're going to begin bleeding soon," the child informed her; "I can smell it."

The Listener's brows lifted. "Tha's nice to know."

"Astrid asked me to keep tap of such things," Babette explained, beaming. "They say the days before bleeding are the best days to conceive. She didn't want a babe, you see, and would disappear for a week to avoid her husband. He didn't understand."

Ellyn rested her cheek against her bicep. "That's what marriage is for – a babe. A childless marriage is silly."

Babette shrugged her frail shoulders. "Marriage is also a leash, and she wanted to ensure the dog didn't run away."

"That's a way of puttin' it, I suppose. But all dogs bite the hand that feeds," Ellyn pursed her lips, contemplating the estranged relationship between the late couple, before lethargically rising. "Is there anythin' I can get fer yah?"

"Nazir and I would like for you to reconsider Ulfric's proposal," Babette stated and sat on the edge of Ellyn's mattress. "We were waiting for you to open up to us about it, but a friend of ours, and someone you should know, Jorleif, informed us today that Ulfric is considering another woman to be his queen and we could wait no longer."

It was difficult for Ellyn to respond to Babette's disguised attack; the child linked her fingers between Ellyn's to remind her of her affection for her, but had Ellyn not been afraid of her, she would have yanked her hands away and slapped the girl for being so rude. "I'm sorry," she began, exasperated, "but my personal matters are not your business."

"But they are," the child explained patiently and held onto her tighter. "You are our Listener. You are our guide; you speak through our dear, sweet Mother. Everything in your life affects us. Should you accept Ulfric's proposal, you will be _High Queen_. We have always had connections with the empire and with royalty, but we have never had a sister who was queen."

"I hate that man, Babette. You cannot ask this of me," Ellyn insisted. "Besides, even if I was made queen, how would I listen to Mother, eh? How would I give orders without anyone ever findin' us?"

"We have that all worked out," the little girl sang. "You know, when I was human, the world was very different. Men hated women. They would rape the women and, by law, marry them despite how the woman felt because the woman was no longer a virgin. That's how I was conceived."

The former prostitute's eyes brimmed with tears. "But –"

"Kings come and go. All you have to do is give him a son and he can join Sithis in the void. It's all simple, really. You're already popular amongst the people! The moot will not be able to suffice a reason to dethrone you."

Ellyn felt like a ship wreckage; "You don't understand," she tried to explain, but lost her voice. Never before did she have an honorable title until she became Dovahkiin, and when that occurred, she became nothing but title. She had lost her name somewhere in the sea-salt, rust, and crushed boards. She had more passion, more dignity as a wench than she did presently, yet she could not simply wipe away the crust. Her cause was lost.

"Very well, I will reconsider," she agreed with her head hanging low.

Babette looked pleased. "Nazir will accompany you to Windhelm. _Just_ in case someone needs to. . .disappear."

The redheaded maiden tore her hand from the other's grasp. "No," she nearly shouted, "if I murder an innocent for the throne, I shall be no better than he."

Babette looked puzzled. The very idea of denying death must have sounded ludicrous to the veteran.

"There must be another way," Ellyn mumbled and looked to her fingers for answers. "There's a man in Riften, Maul – he's always informed on the latest gossip. He might be able to find somethin' on the Gray-Mane lass that I could use to persuade her. Write him a letter and send five thousand septims. He's most familiar with Riften, but for gold, I have a feelin' he wouldn't mind shovin' his nose in Whiterun's business."

Babette giggled eerily. "If you want to save her life, you write the letter yourself. A queen must be able to read and write."

Ellyn's chest sunk. "But I dunno how to read an' write, you little she-devil!"

"You'll have to learn."

"Maybe I'm not suited to be queen, then."

"I hear Sam is a scholar," the little one mused. Ellyn's eyes rolled; Sam* was a ball of fat for a man who had been recruited four months ago by Nazir because he murdered a farmer and showed little promise. He had been sitting on his assignment since it was given to him upon arrival and persistently whined because Ellyn refused to spend the Brotherhood's money to feed him although he made no effort to contribute to their purpose.

"What a naughty little _cunt_ you are!" she cried and, flinging herself onto her back once more, released a sigh of exhaustion. "All I ever wanted to do was help a poor lad, and now I've come to this. I'm cold, lonely, horny, and absolutely bleddy miserable. All of you can fuck off."

* * *

The High King and his most trusted jarl galloped on their steads through the fresh creeks of Eastmarch and to the west where the land was laden with green pines, snowberries, and, eventually, elk. When Vignar Gray-Mane spotted a bull worthy of a feast, his heavily-lidded eyes met Ulfric's; he had too much respect for Ulfric to lead their gang, but Ulfric, having been secluded in his books until he marched into war, could not feign the confidence to lead his brother this time. Instead, the blonde Nord tilted his head and tightened the grip on his horse's reigns.

"We are equal, Vignar," he bellowed; "hunt at my side, not at my ass."

The grandfathered jarl chuckled and dug his heel into the mare given to him by Ulfric upon arriving in Windhelm. "Chase 'im to the edge of the mesa. Either he'll run off the edge or we'll corner 'im. If I try to hit 'im with my bow, I'll miss. My eyes, they're just. . .not what they used to be, old friend."

The king gathered the reigns in his left hand while he gathered an axe in his right. Hunting made him nervous; he understood the social value and respected the traditional Norse pastime, but his father never indulged him in the activity. He feared beasts because of their unpredictability; he tried to chase game as he might an enemy of war, but he saw all creatures that were not human as an alienated existence with purposes he could not, and would not, ever fathom. It seemed to him that each species sought to feed, eliminate, or enslave mankind. After witnessing the horrors of the Great War, he thought it best to suspect the latter two of all; it was safer that way.

This bull, for instance, could turn on his heel and charge at him with his great antlers at any moment. They would plunge into the chest of his horse, throw him forward, and when the bull retracted its head from his stead, he would trample him to death. Ulfric had no intention of going out in such a distasteful way.

The duo chased the elk through narrow paths and steep rocks; Ulfric's stead nearly lost his footing and tumbled, but caught himself and persisted further until the two men reached the edge. As Vignar predicted, the animal stopped short of the cliff and turned, rearing its hooves and lowering its head to charge between the two men. Ulfric's grip tightened on his axe and as the animal sprinted past him, swung into its side, slicing the beast from its chest to its rear. Injured and terrified, the animal attempted to limp further and as it reached Vignar, the old man swung his axe into its neck. The animal and weapon staggered onto the ice, still bucking, until Vignar climbed off his horse, pried away the axe, and gave another swing to end its suffering.

"Stubborn ass," Vignar tutted as he examined the mess. Ulfric climbed to his feet and guided his steed along the blood and hoof ridden path.

"It lost too much blood too quickly," he frowned. "The meat is soiled."

"Aye. I'm afraid you're right about that," Vignar nodded, balling his fists at his hips. "_But_ that's why we brought the mead; it'll fill our bellies ever the same."

"Wise man!" Ulfric laughed despite his wounded pride. He turned his fur-lined back against the mountain chill and ignored the braids that beat his jaw.

The men gathered the mead, ale, and berries from a couple satchels strapped to Vignar's horse; they discussed returning to the base of the mountain where the wind was not as bitter and the snow not as thick, but the king's stead appeared to be favoring his ankle and thus the men made a sort of picnic from an abandoned troll den. Their furs supported their bottoms and the mead warmed them instead.

"How hails the Companions?" Ulfric asked, dallying in small talk.

"Damn if I know," Vignar growled, nursing a third bottle of mead to his raisin lips. "If you ask me, I'd say they've all just become a bunch of expensive sell-swords."

"Shame. And your brother? Eorlund?"

"Still forging their tools. There's a rumor going around you asked the Dragonborn to wed you."

Ulfric spat. "Bah! It was my steward's idea. He doesn't always understand politics. Have you spoken to Eorlund about my proposal to Olfina?"

"Aye, that's why I asked. Eorlund doesn't see much outside of his forge, but he does love you. All of us Gray-Manes do. We would be honored if you took Olfina for your wife, my one true High King. I am willing to offer five hundred thousand septims for you to make her your queen. She's a beautiful girl, a _true_ Nord. Your family has known mine since before our time; you know where we come from, and you know she will make and raise sons to carry your legacy."

"I have the utmost confidence this arrangement will suit finely," Ulfric assured the other. "We'll make arrangements when we take our iced asses back to the palace."

"Ha! Of course! But if you change your mind to marry that Dragonborn wench, . ."

"Are you doubting my honor, Vignar?"

"I'm just givin' yah a friendly reminder, Ulfric. She might not be as loud, if you know what I mean, but we Gray-Manes have been known. . ."

Ulfric's mead sprayed onto the snow through his nose. "That's enough, you old fool!"

Vignar's expression darkened. "If Whiterun isn't on your side, you've already lost the war with the Dominion. It's about time a Gray-Mane sat on the throne, and we will not stand to be shamed should you decide to break the contract."

* * *

***All of the jolly, lovable characters I've ever read about based in medieval fantasy worlds are named Sam. I've decided to continue the tradition!**

**A/N : **Thank you all for your support (reviews, follows, favorites, etc.). It means the world to me and to every writer whom you show your love for. I'm so sorry that it has taken me this long to update; life gets in the way – you know – but hopefully I will be a little more consistent now that things are slowing down. I want to apologize for the massive dialogue and lack of action; hopefully it's not too boring or tedious! Right now there's just a lot of human interaction that needs to take place, but there will be PLENTY of action once we really tap into the genuine storyline (; [and it's not this marriage – it's the war and something else I'll hint to but probably won't really dive into until much, much later].

Also, please give me your opinions on my characterization. I'm not feeling too confident with neither Babette nor Ulfric, but I suppose the scenes I've given are very particular and short, so maybe it's just me? I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thank you all so much.

- I. N.

P. S., for updates and visual inspiration, visit my blog. The link is posted on my page.


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